


Court Jester

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: The Mummy (1999), The Mummy Returns (2001)
Genre: Ardeth Fucking Bay, F/M, Fight me on this. I fucking DARE ya, Great War soldier Jonathan, Jonathan deserves a hug, Jonathan has PTSD, Lets just handwave that tho, Like an exceptionally determined gun-toting onion, M/M, Mentions of War, Rick O'Connell has layers, Slightly inaccurate historical knowledge, World War I, World War I - mentions, or Shellshock as it was known
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 04:04:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Evie didn't take him seriously when he'd said he'd rather like to join the dead. She didn't understand. Jonathan didn't blame her for that. His sister had led quite the sheltered life, Jonathan had insisted on it after their parents passed. She didn't know about death, about the cloying terror of seeing the reaper cometh. Jonathan never wanted her to experience that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I literally watched The Mummy Returns last night and my brain just went off on a tangent. I read a post like ages ago about Jonathan and the Great War and it just conveyed what I felt about it so well. So now I'm writing fic about it. Which I didn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making edits to this fic before I update it. So spelling mistakes, little additions here and there, keep an eye out or you may miss them!

Jonathan doubted he had the presence of mind to be here. Actually, he didn’t doubt it at all; he _knew_ he didn’t have the presence of mind to be here. He wasn't like Evy, wasn't like Rick; definitely wasn't like Bay. Jonathan was just a drunken gambler who had seen too much and tricked and lied his way through life. It was easier to be glib and falsely jovial than to give in to every dark thought that threatened him no matter the time of day or night.

Evy hadn’t taken him seriously when he'd said he'd rather like to join the dead. She didn't understand. Jonathan didn't blame her for that. His sister had led quite the sheltered life; Jonathan had insisted on it after their parents passed. She didn't know about death, about the cloying terror of seeing the reaper cometh. Jonathan never wanted her to experience _that._

But what Jonathan wanted and what Jonathan got were, as usual, two very different things.

"We will kill the creature and rescue her O'Connell," Bay promised, leading them through the sewers of Cairo. "I give you my word my friend."

 _Yes, well, your word counts for little 'my friend',_ Jonathan thought, remaining silent instead of saying what he wanted to. The Medjai was helping them now but barely two days ago he'd chased Jonathan down in the ruins of Hamunaptra with the intention of killing him; or terrifying him enough to flee the ruins. Either way, Jonathan considered himself justified in his distrust and doubt at Bay's words.

Promises were cheap, Jonathan had found. Anyone could make a promise ("I promise we'll survive this", "I swear the reinforcements are coming", "it's just a flesh wound, I swear") but few seemed capable of keeping them.

O'Connell had given them his word that he'd get them to Hamunaptra and he had. The man had kept his word, at least, and Jonathan wasn’t blind. He had seen the blossoming romance between the American and his sister. Part of him disliked it; _g_ _reatly._  Evy was his baby sister. O'Connell didn't deserve her.

No one deserved Evy.

But O'Connell admitted straight up that Evy was too good for him, wasn't deluded into thinking she'd become demure and obedient and quiet. Jonathan could see how Rick would complement his sisters strengths and pick up the slack for her weaknesses; namely her inquisitive nature.

So sure, fine, it was reassuring to know that the American already cared about his sister so much he would try and dive headlong into a crowd of zombies to save her from that- that- from _that._

Eloquent as always, Jonathan.

Even though O'Connell didn't deserve her, Jonathan admitted that Evy could do much worse than a man who'd fight a supernatural nightmare for her.

Still, it grated a little—okay _a lot—_ that O'Connell was being reassured and given promises about the safety of Jonathan's sister. It… well, he didn't _want_ Bay to reassure him about Evy —why would he want that from someone who'd tried to kill him? That would be _absurd—_ but it was like the two men had entirely forgotten about him and his relationship Evy.

Like _he_ didn't matter. Her brother. The person who had watched her grow up. Who loved her because she was family and _all he had left in the world._

Jonathan could accept that he didn't matter in the grand scheme of things; he was pretty much dead-weight. He had enough alcohol in his system to probably not manage much distance in the desert before dehydrating. He didn't have any weapons to use if they were attacked—throwing the pistol had seemed like a reasonable idea at the time, maybe it would have hit that mummy fellow and solved all their problems by cracking his skull?

Jonathan was, in essence, useless.

But that didn’t mean he deserved to be disregarded when it was his family on the line. The last of it. Still...

He wasn't a young man anymore, wasn't arrogant and full of hot air about his strength and bravery. The trenches had robbed him of his arrogance.

They'd robbed him of a lot truthfully.

"This is the quickest route out of the tunnels." Bay said into the quiet of the sewer.

Jonathan wasn't even remotely phased by what they were trudging through. A bit of human filth was nothing compared to rotting bodies and icy water up to the knee that bit down into the bone. But O'Connell would definitely expect him to complain; that was the role Jonathan had given himself since the war.

Serial complainer.

"Oh, thank heavens!" Jonathan pitched his voice low but loud enough for both men to hear him. "I don't want to think about what we're walking through! These trousers are a lost cause, I tell you."

O'Connell didn't even look back at him when he spoke. "Shut up Jonathan."

Jonathan shut up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan hated bugs. He hated them. He also hated O'Connell and Ardeth fucking Bay. 
> 
> But, most of all, Jonathan hated himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan deserves a hug

Jonathan  _hated_ bugs. He  _hated_ them. He also hated O'Connell and  _Ardeth-_ _f_ _ucking-Bay._

Who the fuck thinks it’s a good idea to scare the ever-loving shit out of someone who has a weapon? Who? Ardeth Bay, that’s who. God, but he hated him.

But, most of all, Jonathan hated himself.

They'd had the element of surprise, a key aspect of any assault on an enemy, and Jonathan had blew it by being curious and greedy.  As usual, his vices got the better of him at the  _worst possible moment._

Evy could die because of his stupidity.  Because of his greed.

No. Jonathan shook his head.  Evy wasn't going to die. He wasn't going to allow it.

That mummy, Imhotep, was easier to distract than he'd thought he'd be. Apparently it didn't matter when someone came from, gullible was  still gullible.  Though, with the added benefit of superior strength, apparent immortality, the ability to reattach limbs and so on, gullible was far from easy to handle this time around.

Of course, O'Connell rescued  Evy . Of course, Bay went off and fought those priests. Of course, Jonathan had to read from the other book. Of course, he couldn't get th at last symbol.

Oh, but he hated Ancient Egyptian with a  _passion._

And then he set those royal guard mummies on Imhotep's lady— only partly by accident . In hindsight, Jonathan should have guessed that'd piss of th e immortal guy who got mummified for trying to raise his dead girlfriend in the first place. Really. That was on him. 

Thank God for O'Connell. Jonathan really hadn't wanted to be choked to death by a pissed off undead mummy. That would have been difficult to fit on his headstone.

_Here lies Jonathan, a fool who pissed off an Undead Mummy named Imhotep by murdering the love of his life when trying to protect his sister._

Maybe it would have been an extra-large headstone?

Crawling away from the mummy who was sans an arm, Jonathan made sure the Book of Life wasn't in range of Imhotep. The sight of the mummy's arm on the sand before him had Jonathan's mind  _helpfully_ supplying memories of similar sights.

Of course, watching the mummy  _reattach_ his arm like it was nothing definitely wasn't something Jonathan had previous experience with. Somehow that made him feel  _more_ nauseous than the severed arm had.

Jonathan cursed his recall ability. He'd be remembering that for years to come.

_If_ he lived that long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Connell shot him a suspicious look, instantly reaching for one of his holstered weapons.
> 
>  _Yes,_ Jonathan thought, _that's probably a reasonable response considering their circumstances._

Jonathan might live that long after all. Evie had made Imhotep mortal, reading from the Book of Life while O'Connell prepared for getting his arse thrown across the chamber by the mummy again. Jonathan still wondered if the American was supernatural himself. No one could stand up after taking that sort of beating. 

Well, _O'Connell_ could, obviously, considering how he was wrapped around his sister outside the ruins of Hamunaptra as it disappeared into the sands for eternity.

Jonathan nearly died of fright when a hand landed on his shoulder, light and warm.

The sight of the Medjai sat atop a camel, smiling made Jonathan want to curse at the man.

_Ardeth fucking Bay._

If Jonathan didn't know any better, he'd say that the Medjai enjoyed seeing him scream in fright and jump higher than a spooked cat. Actually Jonathan did know better. Bay definitely found Jonathan's flailing amusing.

So did O'Connell and Evie for that matter.

 _Ah well,_ he thought, _at least I can bring some amusement to this whole nightmare._

That was his role after all. The bumbling idiot. Court jester. Fool.

Disappointment.

Jonathan shook his head, shaking the thoughts away as they continued their trek across the desert. Bay had wandered off in the opposite direction after politely pointing them in the direction of the nearest village where a car might be available. The camels were comfortable enough but they reminded Jonathan too much of when this whole debacle had began.

The sandy air tasted bitter on his tongue at the flood of memories from only days ago. Heavens, it hadn't even been a week since they'd arrived at Hamunaptra, no more the wiser to what had been waiting.

O'Connell tasked Jonathan with removing whatever 'luggage' they'd brought from the desert from the camels and storing it in the boot — "put it in the trunk Jonathan!" — of the car they managed to finangle from the villages blacksmith. It wasn't more than four tyres, a few seats and an engine to be entirely honest, but it'd do.

"Oh that's heavy," Jonathan breathed in surprise after hauling one of the bags off his camel. It had clinked suspiciously, sounding full of something that definitely wasn't bread. He wondered if it had perhaps been water tanks. Monty and his desert rats had buried a lot of water tanks across the desert during the war. Maybe some of those tanks had been buried near Hamunaptra?

It wasn't water tanks.

"Evie!" Jonathan looked around frantically. His sister was over near one of the small houses, speaking with a group of women who, as far as Jonathan could tell from this distance, seemed to be trying to foist more clothing upon her. A reasonable thing considering the state of her dress. O'Connell had glared at every man in the village who'd looked a little too long at his sister. Jonathan had found his approval of the American rising steadily with every interaction between O'Connell and Evie that he witnessed.

"What _now_ Jonathan?" O'Connell snapped.

Think of the devil and the American shall appear.

Jonathan looked at O'Connell with wide eyes. "Uhm… you might want to take a look at this," he said after a moment, glancing down at the bag he was still holding, the flap of it covering what was inside. "Try not to swear."

O'Connell shot him a suspicious look, instantly reaching for one of his holstered weapons.

 _Yes,_ Jonathan thought, _that's probably a reasonable response considering their circumstance_ s.

O'Connell lifted the flap.

"Holy crap."

Jonathan nodded.

"Okay, put it in the trunk, don't let anyone see it. We'll sort this—" O'Connell gestured at the bag "—out when we're back in Cairo."

"Right!" Jonathan picked the bag up, letting out a huff of surprise at the sheer weight of it. The damnable thing hadn't weighed quite so much when he'd only been pulling it off the camel. Now he was countering gravity with something that weighed more than a dead body.

Jonathan had experience with those.

The bags secured in the boot of the car, Jonathan hopped into the cab behind O'Connell and his sister. They left the village, trundling along on flatter ground, sand dunes steadily receding the closer they got to greater civilisation. Jonathan remained silent in the back, not feeling in the mood to chatter incessantly to distract.

Honestly, he just wanted to _sleep_.

Unfortunately he had no alcohol and no desire to sleep without a bit of self-medicating. Damn.

Jonathan settled for staring out at the desert, gaze distant. He didn't want to think but he didn't want to _not_ think either. Not thinking somehow always led to remembering the past and Jonathan had even less desire to do that in the company of his sister and O'Connell.

Well, O'Connell might understand. He'd been a soldier himself. He'd know not to ask. But Evie? Oh Evie would push and poke and pry at the edges of Jonathan's carefully constructed armour until she'd peeled enough back to see inside.

Jonathan didn't want his sister to see what the war had made him.

He sighed. Cairo couldn't come fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally refused to change the spelling of Evie's name even though I know its Evy. I just... My brain keeps trying to pronounce it Ivy whenever I spell it with a y lmao


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the Cairo authorities weren't very pleased with what had happened. Jonathan couldn't blame them; he wasn't exactly pleased either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally handwaving at history here. My bad. I usually do way more research for my fics. In my defence, I have another fic set in the same time period and its kinda trying to invade this one. Please excuse me.

So the Cairo authorities weren't very pleased with what had happened. Jonathan couldn't blame them; he wasn't exactly pleased either.

An unknown threat enters the British fort in Cairo, dessicates an American and then, somehow, turns hundreds of Egyptians into mindless slaves covered in boils and coughing blood. Yes, that would irritate the British quite a bit.

O'Connell, the arse, found it amusing to be faced with an annoyed bureaucrat in a worn suit that needed a good pressing.

Jonathan, as the only English fellow who happened to _be_ a fellow — sorry Evie — had the _delightful_ task of explaining. He'd much rather be back in Hamunaptra.

There was that fatalistic sarcasm again.

"Listen, I'm very sorry for what has happened but we—" Jonathan gestured at himself, Evie and O'Connell "—have _no idea_ what has happened. We've only just got back from the middle of the desert for Christ's sake!"

"Why were you in the desert in the first place?" The official asked suspiciously and Jonathan thanked his panicked habit of constantly thinking of all the ways things could wrong.

It gave him excellent material to use for a lie.

"We were looking for some of the nomad tribes," he replied without hesitation. _Please don't say anything,_ he thought when he saw Evie shift out the corner of his eye. O'Connell adjusted his grip around her waist, making the movement seem natural and not a response to Jonathan's lies.

Thank heavens for O'Connell.

"I was hoping to write a paper on them for the Oxford Anthropology department." Jonathan didn't look away from the official. It wasn't a lie per se. Whereas Evie was very much the academic one of the family, Jonathan was no slouch either.

Besides, he could write anything and Oxford would accept it for their family name alone.

The official stared at Jonathan for a long moment, obviously not really buying his explanation but, since Jonathan had introduced them and Carnahan _was_ a known name of English archaeologists, unless the fellow had proof all he could do was nod and move on.

Which he promptly then did.

Jonathan blew out a heavy breath, relieved at managing to get away without any of them experiencing prison time — or _more_ in O'Connell's case. Evie was giving him that look again, the one she wore when he was doing something that irked her because she didn't understand his motivations.

 _Bad luck old mum,_ Jonathan pulled her into a quick hug, _you're not ever going to understand those._

How do you explain that you're motivated by your failure to die when you were supposed to?

Jonathan hid in his room, ordering a bottle, well, several bottles, of whiskey and scotch from the bar. He wasn't in the mood for jovial company. He just wanted to drink and sleep.

O'Connell would wake him in the morning to make sure they didn't miss their boat. So Jonathan popped the cork out of the nearest scotch and began to drink.

No dreams for him. No sir.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well, the cure to any hangover is obvious._ Jonathan stood, shaking his injured hand when it tingled and picked up the nearest bottle to the bed that had some liquid in it. _Keep drinking._

_ Death... is only the beginning. _

Jonathan bolted upright, gasping in wide-eyed terror. It took him several panicked breaths before his surroundings were recognisable to his terrified mind. He wasn’t in the desert, he was in a hotel room in Cairo. He wasn’t in the city of the dead; trapped in endless corridors of black stone, the sound of scarabs scuttling behind him as he ran, the voice of Imhotep laughing and repeating his last words over and over.

He wasn’t there. He  _ wasn’t _ .

It had just been an exceptionally awful bad dream.

Jonathan looked at the bottle of the Glenfiddich on the bed beside him. It was empty.

_ Damn, _ he thought, picking the bottle up by the neck to place it on the table beside the bed.  _ I could have done with some of that right about now. _

The shutters on the windows of the hotel room were open, letting in a decently fresh breeze. Through the window, Jonathan saw the beginnings of dawn colours seeping into the inky blackness of the night sky.

He hadn’t even slept long enough for O’Connell to wake him from a drunken stupor.

“Just my luck,” he muttered, shuffling on the bed to the end of it. He’d passed out atop it, covers still drawn, and hadn’t really moved much from whatever position he’d curled up into for — he checked his watch — three hours.

The bottles strewn around his room were in various states of depleted. Just the sight of them made Jonathan feel sick. He had a hangover at least.

_ Well, the cure to any hangover is obvious _ . Jonathan stood, shaking his injured hand when it tingled and picked up the nearest bottle to the bed that had some liquid in it.  _ Keep drinking _ .

It wasn't particularly good whiskey– wait, no, it was scotch — but it would do the job. 

Not too much unfortunately, Evie would be most displeased if he showed up to the boat obnoxiously drunk. So Jonathan paced himself. 

One bottle. 

Just the one. 

_ I can always have more on the boat, _ he reminded himself when the bottle was empty, dropping it in the wicker waste bin beside the dresser.  _ Wouldn't be civilised for a boat not to have a bar after all.  _

O'Connell would be coming to wake him soon enough, his watch already showed it was closing in on six o'clock. 

Had he really spent that long just drinking one bottle? What had he been thinking about to zone out for that long. 

Jonathan knew the answer. He hadn't been thinking about anything. It was something he'd done since the war, his mind would just shut off and he'd find himself coming back after an hour or two or three had passed, none the wiser as to what had happened during those missing hours.

It was as though he performed all the actions his body needed without being consciously aware of them.

_ Perhaps I do. _ The room was tidy, bottles either nearly lined up on the dresser with various levels of liquor in them, or deposited in the waste bin with the first. The bedding had been stripped back and folded neatly on top of the folded back blanket, ready for whatever maid arrived to collect it. 

In fact, the entire room was organised and looked as though the maids had gone through it already. 

_ Old habits die hard, I suppose. _ The military left its mark on his behaviour even when he wasn't consciously aware of what his body was doing. _ I wonder if O'Connell experiences the same?  _

Of course, Jonathan would never ask the American. One did not talk about the war. It just wasn't done. Not unless it was to celebrate it. 

Jonathan sighed. He grabbed the case he'd lugged up to his room, having left O'Connell with the bags of gold — apparently he didn't trust Jonathan with bags of gold treasure. He could wander around the hotel a little, perhaps head for the dining room for some breakfast before they left for the boat? 

He wouldn't go to the bar. Not now. Alcohol wouldn't solve the hollow feeling in his bones. All it ever did was numb his awareness of it. 

Jonathan was tired of numbing his body and mind. He missed being who he was before the war. He missed living and feeling outside of near death experiences. 

He was tired of having to be reckless with his life in order to live it. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll have you know sister mine, that I drink only for medicinal reasons!" Jonathan threw over his shoulder at Evie as he stomped through into his room on the boat. The rooms were small, honestly, absolutely tiny, but Jonathan had the honour of having to room with O'Connell for the duration of their trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is longer than usual. Kinda fun. Also, get tissues. You're gonna need em.

So, the boat was horrific. The waves, like the _inconsiderate buggers they were_ , slammed into the hull and made Jonathan's already delicate stomach feel all the worse. Evie had explicitly forbid Jonathan any alcohol — absolute harlot of a woman — for the duration of their trip to England and their ancestral home. O'Connell — the traitor — had backed her up, promising Jonathan a trip overboard if he ventured anywhere near the bar.

Apparently they didn't trust him to keep his mouth shut about their… procurements from the desert.

To be entirely fair to them both, they were right. Jonathan simply found their logic for denying him drink to be offensive and the situation unfair.

"I'll have you know sister mine, that I drink only for medicinal reasons!" Jonathan threw over his shoulder at Evie as he stomped through into his room on the boat. The rooms were small, honestly, absolutely tiny, but Jonathan had the honour of having to room with O'Connell for the duration of their trip.

Not that O'Connell would spend much time in their room. Jonathan was no fool about _that_.

"I'm sure," Evie drawled and Jonathan turned around to give his sister a glare. She just raised an eyebrow at him. "Now go unpack Jonathan. There's a library on the ship and I want to see what they have that will help to pass the time."

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sure O'Connell can help with that problem," he muttered and Evie looked at him.

"What was that?"

Oh, that was a _dangerous_ tone of voice.

"I said, I'm sure O'Connell can make some lovely recommendations of books to read," Jonathan tail-downed, raising his hands and laughing nervously.

"Go unpack, Jonathan."

"Yes, Evie."

 _Thank the heavens she didn't fling that- whatever that thing was in her hands at me,_ Jonathan thought opening his case and pulling out some truly rumpled clothes. _I hope they do laundry on this damned boat._

Jonathan at least can have freshly laundered clothing for the evening and the rest of the week-long journey to fair old England. Without drink for five days, even if he could manage to get away with a few glasses of port at each meal, Jonathan was well aware of how it was going to go.

The fact that O'Connell had decided upon adjoining rooms spoke very much to both the fact that the American was clearly _still_ worked up after their little run in with Egypt’s first walking, talking, supernaturally powered mummy. Jonathan didn’t fault O’Connell for his overbearing protectiveness toward Evie; it was the mark of a man who very much cared about the person they loved in his opinion.

That O’Connell included _Jonathan_ in his protective watchfulness didn’t register until it was the middle of the night and Jonathan was all but throwing himself out of his bunk and lurching for the bathroom to see himself in the mirror.

He had to see his reflection.

He had—he _needed_ to make sure it was still _his_ reflection.

“Jonathan?”

O’Connell was stood just at the threshold of the little privy they had for their rooms – a little tip of the hat to first class status – with a cautious look on his stupidly square face.

Jonathan ignored O’Connell, staring with wide, haunted eyes at his face in the mirror. Paler than he’d ever been since he’d been a lad, Jonathan took stock of every wrinkle, every hair, of everything about him that made him _him_.

Without the aid of alcohol to numb his mind and body, Jonathan’s memories had bled into his dreams, mixing up and recreating in discordant notes events that he wished to never recall; in dreams or waking hours. The image of Lieutenant Harp — “ey up! It’s Harpie! Snap to it laddies!” — holding a jar with a jackal's head, smiling at Jonathan from across a battlefield flashed through his mind and Jonathan jerked back.

“Jonathan, what the hell?” O’Connell’s hand was on his shoulder, that was why Jonathan had jerked back, not the vestiges of his memorandum dreams. The Americans voice was a low hush but the anger — the worry — was clear for Jonathan to hear.

 _Funny_ , he thought, _I didn’t realise O’Connell expresses his worries with anger_ . Jonathan paused, looking at O’Connell. _I thought it was with guns and throwing reckless librarians over his shoulder like Tarzan, really._

“Yes Jonathan, I’m worried about you, congratulations for noticing,” O’Connell said, sarcasm thick in his voice and Jonathan blinked.

He’d said that bit aloud as well. _Oops_.

“Now,” O’Connell continued, pulling Jonathan out of the bathroom with the hand on his shoulder and steering him toward the small desk beneath the port-window. “Want to tell me what that—” he gestured at the privy “—was exactly?”

Jonathan grimaced. “Not—ah, not particularly, no,” he said, the Scottish accent he’d picked up during his time at boarding school in Scotland bleeding into his voice.

O’Connell glared at him. “Wrong answer.”

“Wrong—O’Connell!” Jonathan scowled at the American. “I do _not_ have to bloody well talk to you about whatever hell my mind has _so_ _graciously_ thought up for my resting hours! You’re not my—my—my—” He floundered.

“Father?” O’Connell supplied.

Jonathan nodded. “Yes!” He exclaimed, giving O’Connell the stink eye. “You’re not my bloody father!”

“Wouldn’t want to be,” O’Connell replied levelly. “You are my friend though and you just jumped out of your bunk like Imhotep was in there with you after sounding like you were being _murdered_. So, Jonathan.” O’Connell sat down on his bunk in front of the chair Jonathan was sat in. “Talk. Please.”

Jonathan stared, uncertain. Then he thought of what he’d already said. _I’ve already admitted to nightmares, bloody idiot that I am_. He sighed.

“Not a word to Evie.”

O’Connell nodded. “Swear it,” he promised.

“Fine,” he said, shoulders slumping, leaning in the chair to drop his arms on the desk, elbows propping up his hands which he rested his head in. Awful manners but this was two men. Manners meant little here. “Don’t happen to have any alcohol do you?” He asked, a little desperately.

He could admit to being desperate for liquid courage.

O’Connell wordlessly lifted his pillow, revealing an impressive M1911 handgun complete with extra clips and O’Connell’s whiskey flask. The American tossed it to Jonathan who snapped it out of the air with the speed expected of a man dying of thirst in the desert who had just been offered water.

It was an apt analogy.

“You fought in the war,” Jonathan said quietly after taking an exceptionally long draught of the whiskey. It burned the back of his throat in a familiar way that instantly calmed is jangled nerves. O’Connell nodded. “Evie doesn’t really realise it but I did also.”

“How would she—”

Jonathan waved a hand. “Oh, she thinks I was with stationed in the hospitals off the front,” he explained. “I never told her any different when she made the assumption.”

“You were… a doctor?” O’Connell frowned, obviously trying to picture Jonathan in a white coat in a neat and orderly hospital. It was an image that was as surreal as an undead mummy stalking the streets of Cairo.

“Training to be, almost finished my last year before—well, Europe threw itself headlong into war with weapons hardly any of us knew how to use.” Jonathan shook his head, looking down at the flask in his hands. “I joined because I didn’t want to get drafted and because I knew soldiers needed doctors to treat them. Couldn’t expect the French to treat our lads properly, could we?”

The joke fell flat.

“I was far too naïve to go to war, even at twenty-two,” Jonathan said after a moment. “I hadn’t seen death except in the hospital where everything was so formal and orderly. You never found yourself lacking in supplies in the hospital with a young lad barely a man crying and screaming for his mother because a mine had taken his legs clean from him.”

Jonathan laughed. “And that was what you got in the hospitals where those who had some chance of surviving were carted off to. The front was—it was—I don’t have the words.”

He held the flask out to O’Connell out of habit. O’Connell took it, taking a long swig of the whiskey himself.

“I was a captain,” Jonathan suddenly admitted. O’Connell looked at him. “I had soldiers following my every order and I watched every one of them die while I just _didn’t_. I didn’t.”

He looked at O’Connell. “What sort of god lets someone like _me_ live and kills good lads who were kind and gentle and polite and cared and—” he shook his head. “What sort of god?”

“Beats me, Jonathan.” O’Connell gave him a sad look; the kind Jonathan had seen on other soldiers whenever they came across a fellow soldier. It was a look that spoke of shared suffering, even if one had been on opposing sides or no side at all.

“This whole mess with that darn mummy has—” Jonathan waved a hand irritably “—oh, it’s twisted everything up and now I dream about watching lads I knew having their lives sucked out of them by Imhotep instead of landmines blowing them to pieces. I don’t know which is worst.”

That was a lie. Jonathan knew well what was worse. Explosions like the ones his squad mates had been caught in were the type that killed instantly. Imhotep had drawn out the draining of the Americans. The knowledge came from the look in the priests eyes when he’d held Jonathan by the throat, promising him death for killing Anck-Su-Namun with the royal mummies. It had been a sensation, a feeling, that had chilled Jonathan to his core.

Death by landmine was kinder than death by undead ancient priest with world-ending powers.

O’Connell kept silent, recognising Jonathan was in no mood for the American to try and answer him. What Jonathan well and truly desired was unconsciousness brought on by ingestion of copious quantities of alcohol. But O’Connell replaced the flask back beneath his pillow after a moment.

Jonathan sighed.

“I’m going back to bed,” he decided, standing slowly from the desk. He stumbled a little over to his bunk. “I’ll see you in the morning O’Connell.”

O’Connell might have nodded but Jonathan planted himself face-down on his bunk so he didn’t see. After a moment of him just lying there, face pressed against his pillow, he heard movement from O’Connell — climbing back in his own bunk — and then, softly: “Night Jonathan.”

Jonathan felt like laughing hysterically. O’Connell would be able to drift back to sleep soon enough, Jonathan had no doubt about that. But Jonathan… Jonathan would be stuck in his bunk until daybreak.

He wouldn’t get anymore sleep after that nightmare. He had accepted that fact.

Talking with O’Connell… Jonathan didn’t know if that had been a good thing to do or if he had made a mistake trusting the American with his demons.

 _Well, time will tell,_ he thought. _Time will tell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned ya'll


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update. We're gonna be moving toward the second movie now :)

London was the same as it always was; alive, vivacious, stalwart, and eternal. From the moment Londinium came into being thanks to the Roman Empire setting up a permanent residence in the British Isles in 43AD, the city of London has always had a way about it. The Great War had caused changes in the landscape—pubs and bars saw competition in nightclubs and cocktail places where women who had experienced a measure of freedom during the war could socialise just like men did in pubs—but the city still retained some of its most defining architecture. Tower Bridge, Parliament, Westminster, Big Ben, The King’s Palace; it all made London what it was and it all spoke of a history began nineteen-hundred-years ago. Jonathan loved the city. He loved it because he knew it in the way someone born in a place knew the land; it was integral to him. But, if he were pressed, he would admit that he preferred the rolling hills, sloping moors, and black water lochs of Scotland to the hub-bub life of London.

Even with its extensive number of alcohol-heavy establishments.

The Carnahan family was a small-time noble family with the most scant of Royal connections that had enabled the family to come into a decent amount of wealth in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries when wool became very financially lucrative. By the eighteenth century, that investment in wool had expanded to cotton textiles and even a few vague forays into iron and steel. All of this resulted in a well-to-do upper middle-class family before Jonathan’s father had seen fit to enter into the world of archaeology and made some additional revenue that firmly catapulted their part of the family into the quite wealthy category of British society. Jonathan attended a prestigious enough boys boarding school in Scotland and even attained entry to Eton and, further on, medical school because of their family having the sort of funds available for such an education.

Their ancestral home was still as regal and understated as ever but it felt, at the same time, alien to Jonathan when he stepped through the doors into the receiving area—the woodwork was all still the same, paintings too, but the carpets and rugs on the hardwood floors were different, as was the wallpaper on some walls that weren’t fully panelled. 

It was all rather… Odd.

The caretaker—Terrance ‘Terry’ Gilant—approached Jonathan first, greeting him with a head bow and a polite “hello” before offering the same to Evie and O’Connell. 

“May I take your bags sir?” Gilant asked Jonathan, the query encompassing all of them. Jonathan shook his head. “Very well sir, we had the rooms prepared; if you’ll all follow me. It is rather late.” 

“Terry, Terry, Terry,” Jonathan said even as he automatically followed the man who had been in his life since he was a lad. “It’s so late it’s positively early!” 

And it was. They had been delayed a few extra hours between Dover and the train to London, then the taxi had been slowed by traffic and roadworks, until they’d arrived at the manor almost a whole twelve hours later than planned. It meant it was past midnight before they’d even gotten halfway to the manor from the station. 

In sum, it was absolutely far too late to have anything to eat and too late for Jonathan to drink and drink and keep drinking. Gilant was very sharp when it came to Jonathan and excess consumption of alcohol. 

Jonathan ought to resent the caretaker for it, especially considering how frustrated he grew with Evie when she tried to limit him, but Gilant was different. Jonathan knew the man had seen war and violence in Africa and he also knew that Gilant himself drank heavily. But the caretaker never let it interfere with his work, his duties, or rule him. 

Jonathan wasn’t quite so disciplined. 

Gilant was there, when Jonathan returned from the war—raw and aching, grieving for lost friends—and it had been the man’s strong will and unyielding loyalty to Jonathan’s father that had seen him through preventing Jonathan from drinking himself to death. 

So when Gilant limited his access to alcohol Jonathan didn’t resent him quite so much as he did his sister. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t give Gilant a sharp look when he entered his room—Gilant having left his room till last so the caretaker could corner him, oh Jonathan knew that was what he’d been doing from the moment Gilant had shown O’Connell his room first—and saw not one bottle or glass in sight. 

“I swear, it’s like all of you are conspiring to drive me mad,” Jonathan muttered, looking at Gilant who stared back calmly. “I really would just like a drink before I sleep for a week but is that going to happen? Not likely! First Evie! Now you Terry! Honestly!” Jonathan dropped down onto the edge of the bed, head falling forward to rest in his hands while his elbows perched on his thighs. 

“I’ve got Natalie making a broth for you all now, it’ll tide you over till morning, sir,” Gilant said, ignoring Jonathan’s complaints. “I don’t imagine you’ve eaten today; you always forget to—have since you were a boy.” 

Jonathan sighed. He hated that Gilant knew him so well. In truth, Jonathan had barely eaten at all during the weeklong voyage from Cairo to London. He’d spent most of it wishing for more alcohol than he had access too—even after conning some of his fellow passengers in a card game for their liquor—fighting off ghosts and memories and chills in the hot warmth of the Mediterranean. 

Food had registered only as necessary when Evie dragged him to dinner—or O’Connell did—and even then, he rarely ate more than a few forkfuls before quitting. It hadn’t been intentional really, Jonathan just… He didn’t function well without a drink anymore. Hadn’t since the war. 

If only Evie could understand that.

They had to sort out the treasure from Hamunaptra at some point but—if Jonathan was entirely honest—he really didn't have the heart to handle it anymore. Oh he still liked treasure—it bought him alcohol and alcohol drowned out the ghosts—but after what had happened in the desert, in Egypt, on the boat, all of it… Jonathan was just  _ tired _ .

Idly, as he threw himself down on his bed after Gilant left him for the night, Jonathan considered the possibility of him leaving O'Connell and Evie to their own devices. They certainly didn't need him for anything. Nothing except—maybe—to give Evie away if they decided to get themselves married. Jonathan wasn't sure he liked that idea—but he wasn't sure he  _ dis _ liked it either. 

He'd stick around for awhile—maybe long enough for Evie to marry herself off to the American lunatic—but Jonathan felt a restless niggling beneath his skin that pushed at him. He needed to be away from nightmares and problems and reminders of bloody Egypt. Unfortunately, considering everything, he was unlikely to get the opportunity to escape from such things.  _ Ever _ .

They were part of him now, just like the scars on his palm and shoulder were permanently part of him. Time would dull the marks, turn them into jagged white lines on skin that would lose its tanned look after a while, but they would always be there. A constant reminder.

He was a patchwork piece of reminders really; his parents deaths, war, sand, grit, blades, and bullets. They all left their mark. Jonathan wondered how he even managed to see himself in the mirror with so much history there to see in his eyes alone. 

He wondered how anyone could see him before they saw his past and the charade he put on for them. Perhaps they didn't. It wouldn't be a surprise.

Jonathan was a very good pretender after all, it was the only way he'd survived this life so far. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This essentially ties up the first movie and opens up to the second. We'll have marriage, kids, and then the whole shenanigans of the second movie to deal with haha


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arranged marriage.” Bay’s voice was flat and Jonathan looked at him.
> 
> “Makes the world go round,” Jonathan quipped. “Tradition requires it.” He looked down at his sister, now held by O’Connell who looks at her with the most tender expression Jonathan has ever seen on the Americans face. “Tradition can go hang in my opinion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only been a lifetime since I updated this omfl. Forgive me.

Jonathan had to admit, the wedding was a only a little _bit_ of a surprise. Well, not the actual getting married part, no. It was expected that, as a member of the nobility, Evy would be married with much fanfare to another member of the upper-class. Plenty of very distant relatives would be invited. Cousins of cousins. Peers of the Realm. That sort of thing. Evy getting married wasn’t the surprise, that was expected of course. No. They—all those rich snobs who always look down on others—expected a marriage. They just hadn’t expected _this_ marriage. They expected the one _they_ bought Jonathan into agreeing to, like this was the bloody Dark Ages and his sister couldn’t choose for herself.

The moment the news went out to all their stiff-upper-lip cousins and peers, Jonathan had the _delightful_ job of refusing all offers sent their way for Evy to marry a more ‘suitable’ partner than O’Connell. After the first one he showed his sister, Jonathan had thought it wisest to not let her see the others.

His sister had a surprising skill for throwing sharp blades with unerring accuracy. Even O’Connell had been impressed. Actually, considering the look on O’Connell’s face when he witnessed Evy hurling a sharp dagger with deadly accuracy at head-height for one particular fellow, Jonathan didn’t think O’Connell had been impressed so much as helplessly gone for Evy. Even more than he already had been prior.

The threat of bodily harm apparently appealed to O’Connell; Jonathan wasn’t even the slightest bit surprised.

The promise of harm via sharp objects was enough that it that left Jonathan refusing every offer for his sister’s hand on her behalf, without her actually involved in said refusals. There were, more disturbingly for Jonathan, a good couple aimed at _him_ _too_ which made him cringe at the way the women were held out like tempting little carrots on sticks. The sheer number of refusals, ruffled feathers, and specific body-parts that could become Evy’s next knife target, meant hardly anyone attending the wedding who wasn’t family or exceedingly close to their parents. Even the venue of the wedding had been an issue, with the vicar being rather discontent with Jonathan over his niece being refused alongside all the other ones shoved at Jonathan for a nice marriage. He bought the bugger off with donations to the parish but still, it was rather a lot of work for a marriage that hardly any in their ‘social circle’ would attend.

Though, that was the reason why such effort was put into it, Jonathan had to admit. To make those who didn’t attend out of spite and ruffled feathers, feel like they had missed out on something _important._ The best way to get to the upper-class was always to make them feel like they weren’t invited to an important social gathering. It was like a shot of social poison in their veins.

Jonathan took great delight in being the one administering it.

In the end, Jonathan had the honour of walking Evy down the aisle to be given away to a hulking American who turned out to be exceptionally tender and an absolute pushover for Jonathan’s sister. They really were quite suited to each other.

Alcohol was served, of course, at the reception but with few attendees the night ended quite early on and Jonathan was left to his own devices after seeing off the few guests who had attended regardless. Some old friends of their parents who had sworn to be there at their wedding days. Evy had been quite taken aback at that, she rather was surprised by the support they gave her for marrying a ‘commoner’ and an American to boot.

That left only a few family members who hadn’t popped their clogs, so to speak. Like Aunt Mabel.

Aunt Mabel was especially supportive of Evy ‘snagging’ herself such a looker. O’Connell hadn’t any clue how to take the look Mabel gave him and it was only Jonathan’s sense of newly-formed sibling relationship to the man that saw him dragged away before ‘aunt’ Mabel had him shaking in terror.

O’Connell might have faced down a supernatural mummy that was immortal but no one faced ‘aunt’ Mabel and survived.

Retreat was the only option there, Jonathan had told the man as he neatly guided him to the other side of the reception room and over to one of the few friends O’Connell had made in England in the past six months.

Richard was down-to-earth and very fond of weapons so of course O’Connell got along swimmingly with him. Thus Jonathan was free to peruse the alcohol and avoid any attempts to catch him out with marriage proposals.

Which is the only reason why Jonathan was alert enough to notice the shadowed figure on the upper walkway.

Alerting the newly weds wasn’t the first thing Jonathan thought when he saw the shadowed figure. If it was a threat to them then it’d have to go through Jonathan—meagre as he was—but he actually thought it more a hallucination of his own mind than a credible threat.

There was a distinct lack of spikey fear in his entire being at the sight of the figure. That was the entire reason Johnathan left the reception room and slipped up the stairs to the first floor walkway.

In hindsight, Jonathan had to question his lack of self-preservation instincts because shadowy figure that may or may not be a hallucination is something he should have _mentioned_ to _someone_ downstairs. Really. He really should have.

“If I were an enemy, I could have killed you?”

Jonathan flinched a little at the accented voice to his right but didn’t react as dramatically as he might have a few months ago.

“You’d be an awful enemy if you were,” Jonathan said turning to look Ardeth Bay in the face. “I saw you from by the punch bowl.”

“And if it was my intention to be seen?” Bay looked at Jonathan and there’s an amused layer to the Medjai’s expression that has Jonathan smirking a little.

“Well,” he said, “top marks for getting my attention and luring me away.”

Bay laughed. It was quiet but genuine warmth bled through. “I will not lie,” the Medjai began, “I was expecting O’Connell to notice me first.”

“He’s a bit busy recovering from aunt Mabel.” Jonathan glanced over the railing at the reception room below. “She’s enough to traumatise even the likes of O’Connell.”

“Yourself as well?”

Jonathan looked at Bay. “I grew up with aunt Mabel,” he said, “she’d visit when mother was alive and always talk about making sure I married someone to her standards.” He shrugged. “I’m used to her.”

“Used to someone planning your life for you without your consent?”

“That’s the whole purpose of having children to the nobility,” Jonathan pointed out, looking at Bay. “I daresay if our parents hadn’t passed that they would have decided who Evy and I were to marry and when.” The thought, as always, leaves a bitter taste in Jonathan’s mouth. Evy has few memories of their parents, but Jonathan remembers the talks about their futures, about what would be proper for Jonathan and Evy.

He doubts their parents would have approved of O’Connell. They certainly wouldn’t have approved of the person Jonathan has become.

“Arranged marriage.” Bay’s voice was flat and Jonathan looked at him.

“Makes the world go round,” Jonathan quipped. “Tradition requires it.” He looked down at his sister, now held by O’Connell who looks at her with the most tender expression Jonathan has ever seen on the Americans face. “Tradition can go hang in my opinion,” he whispered.

Bay doesn’t respond and Jonathan looked up, frowning. “Bay?”

The damned Medjai had disappeared. “Bloody Mejdai.” Jonathan shook his head. The reception was winding down and he had to be there to see everyone off. He couldn’t hide up here, watching the scene below, but just for a moment... For a moment, Jonathan could look down at it all and feel a bit of joy at seeing his sister loved and happy.

Jonathan himself might be dead inside from all that he’s seen and done but Evy wasn’t. Evy shone and Jonathan was content to stand in the shadows and watch her shine for a while longer.

The celebrations weren’t over yet, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos sustain me.
> 
> Also... maybe we're getting somewhere with the actual main tag of this fic? Who knows (I certainly don't).

**Author's Note:**

> As Saner summarised this whole thing: you wanna laugh but also not because it's not funny.
> 
> I enjoy writing Jonathan it seems.


End file.
